


Nothing Lasts Forever

by seakaygee



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Violence, die hard au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:38:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5639512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seakaygee/pseuds/seakaygee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Come out to Eight, she said. We’ll get together, she said. We’ll have a few laughs, she said." </p>
<p>After the Rebellion, Haymitch goes to visit Effie and the kids in Eight. Terrorists seize the Justice Building with Effie and Haymitch in it because the odds are never in his favor. Hayffie Die Hard AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It should be hot and humid outside while the train rushes Haymitch Abernathy to District Eight. But instead it’s cold and snow coats the trees. He had planned to make the trip to see the kids and Effie in August, but an ugly rumor surfaced about cutting off victor stipends and forcibly evicting them from the Villages. Only a handful of victors remain but most of those who do are too broken to work and never had gainful employment before the Rebellion.

 

So, he had stayed and argued and wheedled and cajoled until it was decided that any living victors would be granted stipends until their deaths. 

 

Even looking back, Haymitch is proud of his work in the Capitol. But Effie had told him that the kids had been heartbroken that he hadn’t come. He had meant to ask his secretary to call Effie and let her know that he wouldn't be coming, but the debate had been fierce and they had been busy well into the morning. So when Effie called from the train station, no one answered. No one answered when she called fifteen minutes later, either. No one answered any of the times that she called that day, as she stood with the children on the platform, waiting for him.

 

She told him that she’d had to call Johanna, who was still in Eight after having escorted Peeta home from the Capitol (“Worst idea for an escort, sweetheart,” he had told Effie. “Nonsense! Gale would have been much worse,” she snapped.) Katniss had been beside herself. She was sure that Haymitch had been killed or put in prison in the Capitol and she had begged Effie to let them get on the next train and save him.

 

Effie had convinced Peeta to go home with Johanna, and Katniss had looked between Effie and Peeta with tears in her eyes. “I told her I’d been taking care of you since she was in diapers,” Effie told him. “And that Peeta needed her more than you did.”

 

Katniss takes care of Peeta; Peeta takes care of Katniss. He hopes that he takes care of Effie; he’d fucking tried after the Rebellion in any case and Effie--Effie takes care of him better than anyone he can remember. But the idea of Katniss begging to save him had been like a punch to the gut. He had agreed to send her to Eight because he thought there would be fewer bad memories, and more people who loved her from the Rebellion. And Paylor, being from Eight herself, had felt that Katniss posed the smallest threat to domestic security in a District where Paylor herself was so popular. “Did you tell her I stood her up, Princess,” he balled his hand into a fist at the notion of Katniss hating him; at Effie feeding that hate.

 

Effie had huffed, “I told her that you were in the Capitol fighting for her and that you wouldn’t be back until you knew she was safe.”

 

Somehow, that had been even worse than if she had tried to turn the girl against him. 

 

He hadn’t apologized; had decided he would make it up to her when he saw her in a few days. Except a few days turned into a few weeks and suddenly it was almost the new year. His secretary had bundled him up, weighed him down with proposals to read and put him on the train to Eight.

 

On the train, he listens to an old message a dozen times, one she’d left for him in July. Come out to Eight, she said. We’ll get together, she said. We’ll have a few laughs, she had said, a teasing tone to her voice. And he so badly wants to be teased. They’d fought the last time they actually spoke on the phone but it had felt different somehow. They had retraced old arguments—his drinking, the kids, when she would be able to return to the Capitol, and the one that gutted him every time, why he never came for her. She hadn’t been angry; there had been no heat, no passion behind her words. She’d sounded bitter and distant, and she had resisted his attempts to ease the tension between them. In the end, she’d sighed and said, “Do what you want, Haymitch. You always have done. But do not expect me to wait. If you come to Eight, you can come for the children. I am done waiting for you.” There had been a long silence and then a snort, “Goodbye, Haymitch.” She had hung up without waiting for him to reply.

 

He’d thought a lot about that conversation in the months that followed.

 

He’s thought a lot about what words could have filled the silence before that goodbye. The most obvious ones are unthinkable. But he could have apologized. He could have told her something about the way she’d filled the dead space in his life, about how the thought of finding her again had kept him alive when he was in the throes of withdrawal in Thirteen. He could have told her that they were still a team; maybe even more than a team. 

 

He alights the train amidst families, pallets of clothes and couples locked in passionate embraces. He looks for his kids, he looks for his…Effie. But instead of a familiar face, a young man in a smart uniform approaches him with a sign that says, “Haymitch Abernathy.”

 

“Mr Abernathy,” he says, “I’m Argyle and I’m your limo driver.”

 

  
Haymitch has Effie bent over at the hips, face up on her desk. Her torn knickers are at her feet and his mouth is on her swollen clit.

 

When he first arrives at Effie’s office, a young man—fit and Capitol looking, despite his District drawl—is waiting for her, sitting in her chair as if it is his right. Haymitch half listens to the little peacock when Effie returns. He must have heard her footsteps or her breathing but it feels almost preternatural, the way the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and his mouth goes dry before he can even smell her perfume. The other man rises quickly to greet her with a kiss on each cheek and rests his hand low on the small of her back. He looks so smug when he sees Haymitch’s disheveled appearance and he says, “Sorry, I didn’t realize that you were Haymitch Abernathy, the second quarter Quell victor. I guess it’s been a couple of years since you won.” Effie rushes to assure him that Haymitch is a victor and then she hesitates before adding that he’s her friend.

 

The word “friend” leaves a nasty taste in his mouth and he knows that the only thing that can wash it away is her kiss. So he waits patiently for Effie to dismiss her little parrot. Once the door closes behind him, she starts to review their schedule: an appearance at an office party, pick up the smoked ham from the butcher because that rude man simply will not deliver, check on the kids, call Jo--and he can’t wait any more. In seconds, he is across the room and he’s gathering her up in his arms. She looks surprised and slightly annoyed until he presses his lips against hers. He attacks like he always does but she doesn’t respond and so he pulls back slightly and before he can dissemble, before he can mask the emotion, the words tumble from his mouth, “Didn’t you miss me at all?”

 

She looks at him, frank in her appraisal, “Of course I missed you. I’ve spent almost a year missing you. But Haymitch--.” and that’s all he needs to start kissing her again. 

 

This time she doesn’t resist. They clash like they always have. She touches his chest, drags her nails against his sensitive scalp and cups him, the heat of her hand radiating through the fabric of his pants, all with a studied touch that makes him wonder if she has been dreaming of this, of them, too.

 

He scrapes his teeth lightly against the arc of Effie’s clit, eliciting a low whine from her that makes his hard cock jump. He isn’t Effie’s flaneur and he wants to remind her what a man can do for her. Thinking back on the glint of victory in the young man’s eyes upon seeing him, Haymitch digs his fingers into her hips—just the way he knows she likes—and redoubles his efforts.

 

Her moans are shallow now, as if she can’t take a proper breath, and she’s soaked his stubble completely. Anger and lust mix in his belly, producing an ache like the hunger he’d known as a boy, and she is the only way he knows to fill it.

 

He reaches up with one hand to grab her breasts, and she pulls the fabric away so that he can grope her, hissing when his hands make contact with her hard nipples. Panting, she sits up, stomach muscles twitching with every breath, and they share a glance. It’s too fleeting for his tastes. They’ve never decided what this thing between them is; what it means. When he’s alone in the Capitol, he thinks that maybe he’d like to. There are words he’ll never be able to say but he knows there are some she needs to hear that he can offer. Maybe she is fucking that boy; he can’t stop her doing that. It wouldn’t be right. But his closest companions since she left have been his right hand and his memories of her. And he is bored by the thought of anyone else.

 

Her hips begin to twitch erratically and he tugs hard on her nipples, driving her to her release. Her cry is muffled by her hand but Haymitch knows it’s his name and that feels like a triumph for this old victor. He licks ever more softly until she is completely finished and caresses her breasts until her hips stop. 

 

He stands- he is really too old to bend over like that for any amount of time- and begins to undo the button of his pants, murmuring “I don’t have a condom.” Maybe he’ll just finish on her stomach, she had loved that when they were new to each other, had said it made her feel marked. She bites her lip as she regards him carefully, breathing still unsteady and hair tousled around her face.

“I'm still taking my pill, and I haven't been with anyone else since... since before. Is there-has there been anyone else for you?” she asks, eyes shifting away from him as a look of uncertainty crosses her features. 

He wants to tell her that she's the only one he's wanted for years, that he's not even sure how he'd go about being with someone else, but the words stick in his throat, so instead he settles for a shake of his head.

She lets out a breath he hasn't realised she'd been holding, and he can hear the relief in her words when she whispers, “Then I don't care,” as she pulls his hips to hers and before his pants hit the ground, he is inside of her. The heat and tight grip of her make him dizzy and he leans forward, placing his hands on either side of her. Effie’s hands tremble when she frames his face and pulls him in for a deep kiss. Then he moves his hips and Effie raises hers to meet him. He won’t be able to last, he knows that much. Effie’s mouth crashes against his, her hand curls around the nape of his neck, and her breasts brush against his chest as her thighs hold him tightly. He has barely had a drink since he last saw her but he feels drunk now. Maybe she’s better off with her dandy, is the last thought he has before the blood rushing in his ears silences all rational thought. After that it is only, mine, mine, mine.

 

When he finishes, he collapses into her leather chair, pulling her onto his lap and nuzzling the soft skin of her neck. As she lays in his arms, soft and scarred and warm, it hurts him to think that she might have been with someone else. Not because her body is his; it is hers, and in the past, he himself has used it more for release than for love. It hurts him to think that a man might have had her without realizing just how important she truly is. How funny she is. How annoying. How bossy. How beautiful. How broken. How loved she is. By the children, of course. As sick as it makes him to think of another man pleasing her, he doesn’t mind as long as that man knows her worth. But then, that thought frightens him too. If someone else values her as much as he does, how long will that man wait to tell her? To say those words, the ones that were ripped from Haymitch’s heart all those years ago. These thoughts have been Haymitch’s companions too for the last year in the moments between his softening and sleep. After minutes--only minutes--of holding her in the chair—which will need to be cleaned now, Haymitch—she stands up and washes up in the en suite. She emerges, dressed for the night’s party.

 

And the last time he sees her before hell breaks loose, she is smiling over her shoulder at him, telling him to please wash up and get dressed because they have a schedule to keep if they want to get home and see the children tonight. It is so like old times, he can’t help but smirk.

  
Haymitch watches her die and does nothing about it. He can see it all through the glass doors that separate the two rooms but he can’t hear anything. He is laying underneath a large table. She is sitting when the leader of the Capitols shoots her in the head. Blood and brains explode onto the doors, partially obscuring the room from view. Paylor’s lover, a quiet woman who raised five war orphans and had an uncanny knack for finance, is dead in a lucite chair.

Why hadn’t he tried to stop them?

Because then he’d be fucking dead too.

And he is a victor. He steps over dead bodies and lives to fight another day. 

Unbidden, his brain conjures thoughts of people for whom he is willing to die. He remembers Katniss’s embrace—she’s bony and smells of the woods, Peeta who is all muscle, bread and paints, and Effie, all soft curves, sweet skin and currently being held by the Capitols downstairs.

He can’t think of that now. He can only think of how to save himself. But he finds his hand touching the battered gold bracelet he still wears.

He’s safe on one of the upper levels of the Justice Building, which is still under construction. The windows have been put in but wiring is exposed and all manner of construction equipment has been left unattended. The floors are unfinished and cold under his bare feet, colder even than the dirt floor of the shanty he grew up in. This floor is unheated and he wishes he’d taken the time to dress before he escaped Effie’s en suite bathroom. He throws his head up to the heavens and sees…fire sprinklers. He smiles even before he begins to feel the relief in his chest. He pulls the fire alarm and waits.

It feels like he waits forever.

He spends this time cataloguing the useful contents of the floor: a pallet of wood, a table saw, metal bracing, one window that hasn’t been finished, the elevator, and the stairwell. He plans how he would fight one unarmed man, one armed man, an armed man and an unarmed man, and so on until he feels ready. He touches each piece of equipment, weighs the nails in his hands. Because in his hands, anything could be a weapon. 

Instead of hearing fire trucks, he hears the ding of the elevator. He ducks behind a pallet of wood and waits. 

“The fire has been cancelled,” fucking shit fuckers, “Why don’t you come downstairs with your friends? I promise I won’t hurt you.” That piece of shit Capitol has the nerve to chamber a round in his gun. And that’s what seals his fate.

Haymitch sneaks away and turns on a saw to draw his quarry. He waits in a smaller, unfinished room next to the saw and the just Capitol blunders into his trap. As silently as he can, Haymitch runs up behind him and slits his throat.

Or at least, he tries to slit the man’s throat. Truth be told, it’s been awhile since he’s had to kill someone silently and he’s out of practice. He approached too loudly, he realizes as he presses the knife to the man’s neck.

But the man is surprisingly strong for a Capitol and he runs headlong into a wall, angling them so that Haymitch’s shoulder crashes through it. Haymitch keeps an arm tight around the man’s neck and manages to smash his head through the drywall. The man steps on Haymitch’s foot and Haymitch stumbles backwards. He fights to stay upright and the two stumble into the door to the stairs, which promptly gives way. Suddenly, they are falling down the stairs together, concrete bruising Haymitch’s back and ribs. The man’s knee connects with Haymitch’s nose at one point and his fist with his stomach. Then they skid into the landing, Haymitch on top of the Capitol, and a sickening snap cracks through the air. He kicks the other man off of him and scrambles into a corner.

Haymitch feels alive. Every fiber in his being is on fire. The closest he’s felt to this in years has been when he is with Effie. But even she can’t compare. Of course, he’s disgusted with himself as he sits aching in the stairwell. He reaches over and takes the dead man’s bag. There are a few more rounds for the machine gun, a lighter, a walkie talkie, and a black marker.

His mind is on fire. There are a hundred thousand ways he can use this building to fight them.

First, a little present for his Capitol friends. He ties the corpse to a rolling desk chair, puts a party hat on him, and writes, “Now I have a machine gun. Ho-ho-ho.” He hopes that this adequately represents the festive spirit because this may be the best holiday party he has ever attended.

He climbs on top of the elevator car and watches the chaos unfold from above. While the Capitols react to the surprise he’s created for them, he writes down names as they mention them. He’s counted six in all. Their leader seems to be called Hans and there is one called Karl. Surprisingly rustic names for Capitols.

He hopes that the dead man will keep Hans and his friends busy while he runs to the roof to radio for help. It is really such an amateur mistake to leave the roof unguarded but he’s not surprised that the Capitols didn’t think of it. “Mayday, mayday, terrorists have seized the Justice Building. They are holding at least 30 hostages and are armed with—.”

“Attention, whoever you are, this channel is reserved for emergency calls only,” the response crackles over the radio.

Getting a response makes Haymitch so glad that he’s happy for almost a whole second before snapping, “No fucking shit, lady. Does it sound like I’m ordering a pizza?”

He can almost hear the disdain at the other end as he tries with mounting desperation to explain that they are fortifying their position while the police are dicking around. He doesn’t hear the elevator chime this time.


	2. Chapter 2

By his count, Haymitch has killed four men and learned the name of one more (Theo) when he first speaks to Hans. He has only seen the top of Hans’s head (he’s greying, much like Haymitch), and they are about the same height but Hans has an annoying Capitol accent that makes Haymitch want to bash his teeth in. 

They trade insults while Haymitch inventories a bag he took from one of the dead men. It’s filled with detonators, and plastique. Fucking hell, he thinks to himself as he runs his bruised hands over his face. These motherfuckers came prepared to do some damage. But what he can’t make out is why.

“Mr. Mystery Guest? Are you still there,” Hans coos.

Haymitch snorts, “Yeah, I'm still here. Unless you wanna open the front door for me.”

He can hear that Hans wants to laugh at him, “Uh, no, I'm afraid not. But, you have me at a loss. You know my name but who are you? Just another District who loved the Games too much as a child? Another orphan of a bankrupt rebel culture who thinks he's Finnick or Haymtich? Or maybe you fancy yourself Titus, are you planning on eating poor Marco?”

This throws Haymitch for a loop. Everyone in Panem knows a District Twelve accent and Haymitch’s is strong. And they certainly would never confuse it with a District Four or District Five accent. District Twelve is the only thing worse than District Eleven. It’s the end of the line. It’s worse than hayseed. Almost everyone in the Capitol has a terrible impression that they trot out for parties. Except Effie, of course. From the first time they met, she did an uncanny Twelve. If she’d been skinny instead of slim and toned and had lost the clown getup, he might have mistaken her for a townie. She has always been a great mimic. He allows himself a little smile. She just needs to stay alive a little longer. He is picking them off one by one and soon, he will come for her. She said that he never came for her but this time, he would damn it.

“Was always kinda partial to Glimmer actually. I really like those sheer tunics,” he replies.

He can hear the annoyance in Hans’s voice, “Do you really think you have a chance against us, Mr. Victor?”

The elevator chimes, “May the odds be ever in your favor, motherfucker.”

***  
Effie wishes she could take her shoes off and make fists with her toes in the thick reception room’s carpet. It would soothe her, help her to feel grounded. But she doesn’t have time for that. Eyes bright, chin up, smile on. She has terrorists to charm.

Just as she’d walked up to Victors, Sponsors, Gamemakers, and Presidents, Effie walks up to the nearest terrorist and says, “Take me to your leader.” He doesn’t hesitate. As she follows, she can’t help notice that he’s mixed his patterns terribly. It’s not the first time she’s seen such a bad match but there’s something off about the trousers too. The hem is too long and the seat is baggy. No one in the Capitol would dare wear linen trousers with a cotton blazer either. It’s just odd. They’ve holed up in her office without asking her, which is very rude indeed. But she won’t critique their manners as she’s about to ask for a small favor. 

The little terrorist who has walked her into the office stops her in front of her desk. She suppresses a smile when she sees that their leader is sitting in her leather chair, leaning on the exact spot where she and Haymitch had performed certain carnal acts just hours before. “I have a request,” she says without preamble.

He looks her up and down and clearly doesn’t approve of what he sees although she notes with a bit of triumph that his disapprobation does not stop him from taking a second look. She doesn’t think much of him either. His suit is made better than his underling’s but he’s left all the buttons of his jacket done up and it’s creasing the fabric. Then there’s the facial hair. His barber must be some sort of district because the lines are neither clean nor equal. There are no embellishments to enhance his face and his eyebrows are a disaster. They’ve said they’re here for money and their general upkeep seems to indicate that they are poorly off. But still, there are inexpensive salons that could do his hair better. It almost looks like a grown out version of the butcher jobs they gave men in Thirteen. “What idiot put you in charge?” he asks rudely, and Effie makes no attempt to mask her displeasure.

“Manners,” she snaps, despite her earlier determination to not criticize them. “ And you did. When you murdered my boss. Now everybody's looking to me. Personally, I would forgo the rather dubious honor. I do not enjoy being this close to you.”

Then he sits back in his--her chair and really looks at her with a little smirk on his face. There’s something to him that reminds her of Haymitch. He’s too cocky for his own good. “Go on,” he prompts, licking his lips.

“There is a pregnant woman out there,” he sighs when she says this. “Relax, she is not due for a couple of months. Sitting on that rock is not doing her back one bit of good. I would like permission to move her into an office with a sofa.”

“No,” he says, looking at her breasts, “But I can have a sofa brought out to you. Good enough?”

She crosses her arms over her chest, “Good enough. Unless you like it messy, I would suggest you start bringing us in groups to the bathroom.”   
He grins at this, “Yes. You’re right. It will be done. Was there something else?”

“No,” she smiles, falsely, “thank you.” It feels comfortable, it feels good, it feels like being an escort again. 

She can feel his eyes on her ass. Then he says, “Paylor choose the people for Eight well, Mrs.--?”

“Trinket. Miss Trinket,” she replies, flouncing a bit.

***  
Haymitch is planning what he wants to say to Effie when Hans calls over the radio. He cuts right to the point, “There’s someone who wants to talk to you, Haymitch. A very special friend who was with you at the party tonight.”

Haymitch’s heart plummets thirty five stories and is about to shatter on the ground when he hears a man’s voice say, “Hey, Haymitch, my boy.” It’s Effie’s boy from her office. It’s not Effie. He doesn’t know if they can hear the relief but the sensation slowly begins to creep back into his body. “Ellis, what have you told them,” he asks cautiously. He doesn’t want the boy to die. He’ll save Ellis if he can but he won’t break his back to do it.

“I told 'em we were old friends and you were my guest at the party,” Ellis sounds so fucking smug that Haymitch almost doesn’t feel bad for him. But he does feel bad for the little prince because he’s going to die tonight. If Haymitch is exceptionally clever, he might survive this episode but he won’t walk out of here in one piece. “Ellis, you shouldn't be doin' this,” Haymitch says, careful to keep his tone neutral.

The little prick has the nerve to laugh, “Tell me about it. Alright, Haymitch, listen. They want you to tell them where the detonators are. They know people are listening. They want the detonators or they're gonna kill me.”

There it is. They’re going to kill him if he doesn’t give them the detonators. He can’t give them the detonators. He doesn’t want to give them an excuse to kill Ellis. If they realize that he doesn’t care that Ellis is dead, they’ll start executing people until they find Effie. Or worse yet, Effie will do something crazy and brave like volunteer so no one else has to die. The situation is too tenuous for his liking. He can’t manipulate the variables downstairs. 

The radio crackles, “Haymitch, didn't you hear me?”

Haymitch crouches in a dark corner and suddenly understands why Effie hid like this after she got out of the cells. It’s kinda comforting. No one can sneak up on you. Haymitch usually prefers empty rooms for that feeling but he could get used to this. His voice sounds heavy when he answers, “Yeah, I hear you.”

“Hey, Haymitch, I think you can get with the program a little, huh,” now there is panic in Ellis’s voice. “The police are here now, it's their problem. Now tell these guys where the detonators are so no one else gets hurt, you know I'm putting my life on the line for you, pal.”

Haymitch knows that Ellis has put his life on the line. But it’s some bullshit that Ellis put his life on the line for Haymitch. Ellis put his life on the line for Ellis. He wants to get something out of it. And now he will--a bullet to the brain. Fuck; he’ll be lucky if it is to the brain. Haymitch pushes talk, “Ellis, listen to me very carefully….”

“Haymitch?” He sounds scared now and Haymitch swallows the bile that’s threatening to come up, “Shut up Ellis, just shut your mouth! Put Hans back on the line.” Haymitch is up and pacing again. He’s not sure what to tell Hans. “Hans,” he starts, “This shithead does not know what kind of man you are, but I do. Listen to me!”

“Good. Then, you'll give us what we want and save your friend's life. You're not part of this equation this time, you realize that,” Hans sounds so fucking smug. Haymitch doesn’t want to punch him. He wants to slap him like the little bitch he is. If he ever sees Hans, he’s going to kick the fucking shit out of him.

Before Haymitch can respond, Ellis is talking again, “Hey, what am I, a method actor? Hans, babe, put away the gun, this is radio, not television.” 

Haymitch is pacing so fast, he’s almost running. And he’s too fucking old and tired to run, “Hans, this asshole is not my friend, I just met him tonight, I don't know him. Jesus Christ, Ellis these people are gonna kill you, tell them, you don't know me.”

“Haymitch, how can you say that after all these years, huh? Haymitch,” Ellis asks. He sounds too confident. Surely he must realize by now that he’s going to die. That no matter what Haymitch does, Ellis is going to die. “Haymitch?” Haymitch doesn’t respond to Ellis. After a pause, Ellis chuckles slightly. It’s the last thing Haymitch hears him do before a gunshot rings out. He supposes Ellis is dead because he doesn’t hear any moaning or crying. But he does hear screaming in the background. Shit fuck, he hopes it’s not Effie. It’s not like Effie to scream outside of the bedroom.

Hans is yelling, “You hear that? Talk to me, where are my detonators? Where are they, or shall I shoot another one? Sooner or later, I might get to someone you do care about!”

Haymitch is in hell again. Effie is being held by a hostile force, he can’t get to her, Katniss is angry at him, and he has to listen to some imperious Capitol fuck. Thankfully he is relatively dried out at the moment, otherwise it would be like fucking Thirteen all over again. Haymitch is lost in his memories when he replies, “Go fuck yourself, Hans.” That’s him, that’s Haymitch Abernathy: defiant until the end.

***  
Effie is not in the Capitol. She is in Eight. Haymitch is here. Haymitch is coming for her. She hears glass smashing and she doesn’t feel like she’s in Eight. She doesn’t feel safe. She feels like she’s in her apartment when the Peacekeepers came for her and threw her through a glass table. She feels like she’s in the cells when the partitions exploded and she was too weak to turn away. She feels herself slipping back. Maybe she never went forward at all. Maybe this is all part of some terrible dream. Maybe she can’t even have good dreams any more. She clenches her teeth and tries to feel Eight when a warm hand covers hers. “God. That man looks really pissed,” Margaret says, fear and awe mixing in her voice.

“He’s still alive,” she says it before she knows it, before she feels it.

Margaret lets go of her hand and Effie grabs it back. “What?” Margaret asks, as if Effie has gone crazy.

Effie can’t keep the smile off of her face as reality sets in. She feels her heart beat out a word, a-live, a-live, a-live. She squeezes Margaret’s hand, “Only Haymitch Abernathy can drive somebody that crazy.” She’d been upset enough to upend several liquor carts when Haymitch was being particularly difficult, so she completely understands the sentiment. Knowing that he’s still out there, that he might come for her keeps her smiling. She should have learned her lesson by now. But her love for him is the triumph of hope over experience.

***  
There’s something off about “Bill” from the moment Haymitch meets him. He keeps trying to wander off in his white, Capitol suit with the dirty knees. It’s the accent he keeps coming back to. It’s not from Eight, it’s not really Capitol; he can’t place it. It doesn’t sit right with him. Bill asks him where he works, if not at the Justice Building and Haymitch is honest, “I work for the President in the Capitol. Not sure what my title is at the moment.”

“It must be cold,” Bill says, looking pointedly at Haymitch’s bare feet. “There was a pretty girl,” Haymitch smirks, “at least I got my pants back on, right?” He wiggles his toes and they laugh. He offers Bill a handgun and his smile is just a bit off. Then he launches into some bullshit story about a weekend at a combat ranch with paint guns. Haymitch loads an empty cartridge into the gun and hands it to Bill, hoping that he looks guileless. “It probably sounds stupid to you,” Bill concludes, reaching for the gun.

“Nope. Time for the real thing, Bill,” Haymitch replies. Bill looks mistrustful as he reaches for the gun. He has every reason to be mistrustful. Bill’s been fucking with him since the moment they met. Maybe he’s a District and he’s hoping to lure Haymitch back to the Capitols. Maybe he’s a Capitol waiting to lead him back to the nest. But it reminds Haymitch so much of the Games, and it makes him a bit sick. It reminds him of the way they sent frail, young women to shepherd them, to act concerned with them, to feed them, to put them in the most comfortable beds of their lives and then to lead them to the slaughter. He licks his lips, “All you got to do is pull the trigger.”

He walks past Bill with a jerk of the head that means, “Come with me.” As soon as he is a few yards past Bill, he hears the safety being released from the gun and the shrill Capitol accent calling his comrades to their location over the radio. This is why he has always been mistrustful of others. They have constantly let him down. “Put the gun down and give me the detonators,” Bill says. Or rather, Hans’s voice says. 

“Well, well, well, Hans.” Haymitch says. Meticulously groomed facial hair, a suit cut so well that Effie would weep over it, and a look of smug satisfaction he can’t wait to wipe off the fucker’s face. “Pretty tricky with that accent. You oughta be on fucking TV with that accent. But what do you want with the detonators, Hans? I’ve already used all the explosives.”

Haymitch walks closer to him, reveling in Hans’s look of superiority. It won’t last long. He won’t be as easy to kill as Paylor’s lover. He comes to a stop in front of Hans, “Or did I?”

“I’m going to count to three,” Hans says. Haymitch has to suppress a grin. He can’t wait to see the look on this asshole’s face when he realizes the gun has no bullets. It’s going to be so sweet. 

Hans pulls the trigger without counting. “Ooops,” says Haymitch. Hans looks bewildered as he pulls the trigger again and again. “No bullets.” The room is filled with the sound of metal sliding against metal as Hans tries to shoot him. It is even sweeter than he had imagined to watch the panic start to fill Hans’s eyes. Over the years, he’s dreamed of seeing that fear, that dread in people’s eyes--the escort who reaped him, President Snow, the Peacekeepers from Twelve, the men who tortured Peeta and Effie, the list went on. He grabs the gun out of Hans’s soft hand, “What do you think...I’m fucking stupid, Hans? 

Then the motherfucking elevator chimes again. “You were saying,” Hans snarls, and Haymitch wishes he had time to hit him just once in the mouth. But that will have to wait. He unleashes a burst of cover fire as he runs past the elevators. The Capitols, or maybe they’re not really Capitols but he doesn’t give a fuck, return fire as he dashes to a far office with glass windows and doors.

He manages to shoot one in the knee and he falls through a window, cutting his throat open on the glass. As the man’s blood pools, Haymitch can’t help but think that the Capitols would have loved that death if this were the games. He would be flooded with little packages. There’s a pause in the gun fire, then the glass comes crashing down around him. Shards embed themselves in his flesh. It’s so like the Gamemakers to--he stops himself hard there. There are no Gamemakers here. These men know no more about their surroundings than he does. They can’t control the building. They can’t control him.

He’s formulating a plan that involves a telephone and a rolling chair when he hears the telltale sound of a pin being pulled from a hand grenade. He had heard it often enough while watching the Games in the Sponsor’s lounge and in the Control Room in Thirteen. Whichever of them tosses it does so gently and it rolls slowly toward him, giving him just enough time to make it across the broken glass and to the stairwell. It’s only after he’s picking the largest shards out of his feet that he realizes that he left the bag containing the detonators behind.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haymitch’s last run in with Hans has left him battered and bruised, and he’s had worse but he’s not the victor he once was. His feet have the worst of it--they’re all cut to shit, and the unfinished bathroom is covered in his blood.

Haymitch’s last run in with Hans has left him battered and bruised, and he’s had worse but he’s not the victor he once was. His feet have the worst of it--they’re all cut to shit, and the unfinished bathroom is covered in his blood. It reminds Haymitch of that joke he hated as a kid--what’s black and white and read all over? The newspapers he’d fished out of a trash bin and used to cover the floors so that he doesn’t slip and fall on his own blood. He’s amazed by his brain’s ability to remember stupid shit as he limps to his inevitable death. He’s been a victor for so long that he’s almost forgotten that he could be beaten. Although to be fair, it’s seven to one and they have guns. Also to be fair, he’s smarter than those dumbfucks and he should be fucking Effie in front of a fire by now.

The thought of Effie is as painful as a bed of pine needles. He saved all of these words for her and he won’t even get to use them. He wants to tell Effie that he should have supported her when she took Katniss from the Capitol. He shouldn’t have made her take care of the kids alone, not when she had so much healing to do. He wants to tell her that she is the best thing that ever happened to a bum like him. She has heard him say, “I’m sorry,” a thousand times, but she has never heard him say, “I love you.” With his black marker, he writes, “Love you, Effie,” on the floor. His first reaction to seeing the words is to blot them out because someone might see; instead, he covers them with bloodied newspapers and hopes that if anyone ever sees them, it’s someone who will tell Effie once she’s safe.

Because he knows now that this is the Arena.

This is more the Arena, than the Arena ever was for him because now he knows what is truly at stake. If he slips, if he falters, Effie dies. Every move must be calculated, every blow must land, every punch must be his strongest because if it isn’t, she is gone, and it will be his fault. He didn’t know he was fighting for his family’s life in the Arena; if he had, he would have been different. Now he knows that Effie is victory, that nothing means anything unless he saves her. She will survive. And if he does too, well, great. But this isn’t the 74th Hunger Games. The Gamemakers won’t make the same mistake twice. She will be his victor.

So he is brutal when Karl finds him looking at Hans’s plastique. Karl shoves a gun in his face and says, “I am a professional but this? This is personal.” Then Haymitch pushes the gun away with all of his might. He punches Karl without mercy and without reprieve. A straightforward attack has never been his style; he has always left fists to the Careers who look more like mountains than men. But he only has his hands and his head now. Karl was right when he said that this was personal. Effie is the only thing that makes Haymitch feel like a person. 

But Karl is more like Haymitch than Haymitch is at the moment. He waits for the first sign of fatigue and catches Haymitch’s left arm in his arm. Karl twists Haymitch’s arm until it feels like it is going to break, then he punches Haymitch once in the jaw, a blow so strong that Haymitch falls to the ground. Karl kicks him in the stomach, right above his scar and Haymitch wonders why people always strike him in the belly. Certainly there’s more to strike these days but really, couldn’t he have kicked him in the kidneys just to mix things up a bit? 

Then, as if an answer to his prayer, Karl kicks him in the face and Haymitch finds that he rather favors the change. Head still ringing from the blow, he sees a pistol--it must be Karl’s because he doesn’t have one. As if he can read Haymitch’s mind, Karl kicks him in the shoulder, undoing all of Haymitch’s efforts to get up. 

Haymitch manages to crouch, which only allows Karl to kick him more efficiently in the chest. He lands on his back and Karl jumps on him, but allowing himself to be so close proves to be Karl’s mistake. Haymitch easily flips Karl onto his back. He grabs Karl’s stringy hair and starts bashing his head against the cement as hard as he can. Out of breath but triumphant, he cries, “ You should have heard your brother squeal when I broke his fucking neck.”

Karl is stunned so Haymitch runs to the pistol but before he can even aim, Karl has a gun in his own hands--where the fuck did it come from--and he’s shooting. Haymitch hears himself cry out as he runs to the stairwell and he thinks a bullet grazed his arm but he can’t be sure. He’s feeling so much that he’s not really feeling anything anymore. But he knows that Karl only has three bullets left. He shot twice before Haymitch closed the door to the stairs and four times after that.

He runs down the stairs and leaves the door wide open so that Karl will follow him. He surveys the loading dock. There’s a hand dolly, some chains for hoisting crates, and two sets of stairs that lead to the stairwell. Otherwise the room is too bare and there are too few things to fight with. He climbs up into a void between two crates and wills his breath to slow so that Karl won’t hear him. And Karl, that moron, doesn’t hear him. In fact, he almost runs past Haymitch. He cries out, probably as much in shock as in pain, when Haymitch’s bloody foot comes in contact with his head. Haymitch jumps down and tackles Karl. 

He’s beating him again and yelling incomprehensibly, “You fucker, I’ll kill you, you fuck.” He’s not sure which part of his brain is providing this commentary but he’s so angry that he can’t control it. Karl kicks him again in the stomach--always in the fucking stomach--and runs towards the stairs. Haymitch is on him in a second, pinning him to the stairs. Every fiber of Haymitch’s body cries out to him to stop. Somehow Karl manages to kick him in the knee and scamper up a couple of stairs before Haymitch can grab his leg and pull him down hard. And they’re standing again, Karl is pulling Haymitch’s hair and Haymitch can’t help deride him for the little bitch he is. Then Karl’s other hand moves across Haymitch’s face to gouge out his eyes. Haymitch reaches blindly for the chains he knows are behind him and Karl’s thumb presses against Haymitch’s eyes just as Haymitch touches the cool links. He jerks them forward and wraps them around Karl’s neck. It happens so fast that Karl is almost all the way over the railing before his hands reach for his neck. Haymitch gives Karl one final push and judging by the crack, Karl is dead before he hits the wall.

“Fucker,” Haymitch mutters as he stumbles up the stairs.

***  
Non-alcoholic drinks and small snacks have been rationed to everyone now that bathroom breaks are done. Effie rather likes organizing people for the Capitols. It feels homey in a sick way. Maybe she’ll get to pair them off to fight to the death. She banishes that thought from her mind. It’s that bit of madness that keeps welling up ever since her stay in the Capitol cells. She rests her hand on Margaret’s belly and feels the fluttering kicks of the baby, and she lets the sensation ground her. There were no babies in the cells. She is here and she is now.

She closes her eyes and listens to the news report that the Capitols are watching. The reporters mostly just repeat things she already knows, with the occasional incorrect fact thrown for good measure. She is mentioned as being held. The title they give her is, “Rebel escort to the Mockingjay.” She can hear Margaret smile at that one. She is losing interest and beginning to plan the next wave of bathroom breaks when the presenter announces that they have a reporter live inside the Mellark-Everdeen home (Everdeen-Mellark, she corrects mentally.) This sets her on edge. They shouldn’t be at the children’s house. It’s off limits. Plutarch had promised her, he had promised Haymitch. 

She doesn’t hear the beginning of what Katniss says over the panic that’s welling in her chest, but she starts to hear around, “--and we want Effie to know that we don’t want her to die. She’s part of the team.” Katniss sounds gruff and cold but Effie knows her sweet little heart is breaking. She hopes that she’s not one more name on the list of people who Katniss has lost.

Peeta acquits himself better, but he always has. He has a natural warmth and not even the Capitol could steal that away, “We hope for a peaceful resolution to this conflict and the safe return of all the hostages to their families. It would be bad manners to keep them away from home during the winter holidays.” Effie smiles at this because she knows it’s a message for her from her sweet boy.

Then the reporter says something that causes a chill to go through Effie’s heart, “Peeta, we hear that you have some portraits of Effie that you might be willing to show us.” There’s a pause, then Peeta hesitantly agrees to show them his paintings.

Effie knows the room must look like it belongs to a crazy person. But Peeta does a painting every time he remembers something and one of them confirms it as real. She sees one of her in a pink wig and she remembers when he brought her to see it. She had been so ashamed to sit, plain-faced in front of her former, younger self. But she pushed those feelings away and told Peeta about how she wore that wig after the Capitol had cleaned him up and dressed him for his first Games. About how she went to his room to check on him and they ended up having a heart to heart. She told him how she’d seen how brave he was that day, how thoughtful, how polite. He had been the handsomest tribute twelve had ever produced and she had known in that instant that he could be a victor. He would’ve been the Capitol’s darling. She had cupped his face with her bare hand and called him a good boy. He had pressed her hand to his face with his own, much larger hand and asked her to say it again. 

This, as much as anything that had happened over the years, broke her heart. She told him he was good and that she would get him sponsors if she had to kill Haymitch to do it. And she meant it. Katniss was the stuff of victors and Haymitch loved that. But this boy was something else, something really special and she wanted him protected for as long as possible. If that meant a few unpleasant nights spent on her back, so be it. She wanted to save Peeta Mellark.

And now here she is, only a mile away and she can’t protect him. Effie opens her eyes to watch the broadcast. Katniss lingers in the background, looking sullen and mistrustful as Peeta describes his paintings. The subheading under, “Attack on Eight’s Justice,” reads, “ Portrait of Instability?: Our Forensic Psychologist Explains, Next!”

“And what’s this one, Peeta,” the unctuous man asks, all faux-innocence.

Peeta beams at the painting on the easel, “It’s Haymitch and Effie. I’m going to give it to Haymitch when he comes to Eight.”

The man appraises the painting, barely able to conceal his glee, “They seem to be in intimate conversation.”

“That’s enough,” Katniss cuts in. She turns the picture so that Panem can’t see plain Effie gesticulating animatedly while Haymitch looks at her, lovingly. “You need to leave. Now!” Katniss’s voice is desperate and Effie can hear the panic attack coming. But she doesn’t get to worry because she feels the air shift in the room. There’s a crash, then another, then silence from her office; it’s glass and metal against the wood floor. He’s noticed the picture frames. They’re still in a pile on her credenza. It was one of the finishing touches she has not had time for. At this rate, she’ll probably never get to finish decorating. On top of the pile is a picture of her with Katniss and Peeta at their Games, she likes it because she’s still relatively young and beautiful. The second one is of the children at Peeta’s birthday. Katniss had smeared frosting on his cheek and he looks so happy that her eyes well a little every time she sees it. The last one is one of her--plain her, old her, broken her--sitting so close to Haymitch their foreheads are almost touching. He’s looking at her lips and smirking. Even the thought of the photo causes a little lick of desire in her stomach. 

When Hans storms out and fires twice into the ceiling, she knows she’s dead. He orders everyone to the roof and she pretends that she’s everyone until he grabs her roughly. Apparently, she’s going with him. She ought to be afraid. That would be logical in this situation--held at gunpoint by a fashion-crazed lunatic. But she’s not afraid for her--there’s so little of her left to be afraid--she’s afraid for Katniss who is having a panic attack at home, for Peeta who may learn that he inadvertently exposed Haymitch’s weakness, and mostly, she’s afraid for Haymitch who is about to lose her, Haymitch who never wanted anyone close to his heart again. 

Hans drags her upstairs to a high-tech vault that is oddly filled with rusted, old filing cabinets. The kind that people are so fond of in Thirteen. “Sit down,” Hans growls. Effie tries to object but Hans pushes her to the ground, “Sit. Down.” She sits down like a good little doll and starts to plan. She doesn’t think she can seduce him. He’s looked at her more than once but never long enough, never lingeringly enough to make her think that he would abandon his objective for her. The man with dark skin and an exceptional smile might make a mistake for her but he doesn’t even have a gun so he is of no use either. She can’t fight her way out unless she finds a way to take Hans’s gun and that seems unlikely. She’ll have to bide her time. Maybe there’ll be a chance if they go to another floor. Or maybe the Peacekeepers will come. She doesn’t dare hope that Haymitch will.

He picks up the radio and calls for Haymitch, “Abernathy, I have some news for you. Abernathy!”

There’s no response. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe someone did what 47 Tributes, Snow, Coin, and twenty five years of blackout binges never could do. It numbs her, the thought of him dead. Now she’s truly not afraid of what they’ll do to her. From what she’s seen of them, she doubts they have any ideas that the Capitol hasn’t tried on her. She regrets not being able to send the children her love--she knows that Katniss will take it very hard, poor dear. She regrets having fought with Haymitch on the phone. She regrets that she didn’t stay longer in his arms. She regrets that she didn’t at least try to tell him that she loved him. He would have rejected her, of course. But he could have died knowing that she loved him.

And then the one she hasn’t seen before, the one Hans called Theo, says, “We have the names.”

Effie’s head snaps up. What names? Theo holds up two piles of papers. One has names and locations, and she recognizes some as Coin loyalists and their locations as prisons and extraordinary rendition sites. The other has the names and addresses of key backers of Paylor’s regime. She sees Plutarch’s name and recognizes most of the others as wealthy Capitols. And it makes more sense, she supposes that they’re here for information, rather than for money. Eight’s Justice Building has a small cash reserve but not enough to keep five men from the Capitol in style. And where would they have spent the money anyway?

She has been so stupid. They’re not from the Capitol. They’re here for Paylor’s people, which is ridiculous because Haymitch would have told her if Paylor had known about Katniss’s plan to assassinate Coin. Or at least she thinks he would have. Sometimes it feels like secrets upon secrets with that man. She wants to laugh because within easy reach are the man who planned the assassination and the woman who carried out the assassination. But these--these fools are obsessed with a list of Capitols who did nothing but contribute money to the regime. She can’t help but probe, “After all your posturing, all your little speeches, you're nothing but common rebels.”

Hans’s face is next to her’s almost instantaneously, “I am an exceptional rebel, Miss Trinket. And since I'm moving up to full-scale murder, you should be more polite.”

Effie is so taken aback by his insulting her manners, that she can’t say anything.

***  
Haymitch is soaked from the sprinklers, covered in little shards of glass, half deaf from the explosions and gunfire and so exhausted that he could sleep for a decade. But right now he has duct tape, a gun and three foolproof plans. He slides across the wall, approaching the vault room slowly. He can hear Effie yelling at someone to get off her. He doesn’t know what’s happening to her and that makes him a little sick. He takes a deep breath to suppress the primal urge to rush them. The game is almost won. One more Capitol is dead and the other civilians are safe. He has three Capitols to kill and then he can take Effie home. 

He waits near the entrance to the hall until one of the Capitols, barely more than a boy but he’s killed younger, walks by. Haymitch punches him so hard that he falls to the ground. Taking a deep breath, he steps into the corridor between the the reception room where he has been planning and the vault. “Haaans,” he calls out.

Hans emerges from the vault room and cocks his gun. Then he pulls someone out of the room behind him. It’s Effie. Of course. Even covered in dust and sweat, she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. The butcher job the Capitol did on her hair has finally grown out and it falls in soft, pale waves to her shoulders. Her blue eyes are glassy and filled with tears. She’s wearing a hunter green dress that covers her arms past her elbows and falls to the floor; it’s like a second skin on her, barely obscuring her nakedness. And peaking out above her right collarbone is a love bite that he gave her earlier. And when he sees her, it’s like everything else fades away for a moment. He commits her to memory.

He sees her lips move, but he can’t make out what she says. “Hello, sweetheart,” he slurs, his head heavy. He hurts. She watches him like she’s never seen him before. He must look even worse than he did during his Games. He just wants to comfort her. To let her know that she’s alright. That he’ll be alright. He walks towards them, dragging his left foot. There must be some glass in it still because it really fucking hurts.

Hans presses the gun to Effie’s head and says, “Drop the gun.” Haymitch supposes he should ask the right sorts of questions here: what are you doing? Why are you doing this? But he doesn’t give a flying fuck why any of this--whatever the fuck this is--is happening. He just wants to take Effie home and curl his body around hers. To Effie’s credit, she doesn’t look scared. She looks resigned until he drops his gun. Then she looks horrified as he puts his hands behind his head, exposing his chest to Hans. He wants to tell her that he has a plan. To remind her that he always has a plan.

“Still the little Victor. You District types are all alike. This time Finnick Odair does not walk off into the sunset with Katniss Everdeen,” Hans says, voice dripping with condescension.

It’s such a stupid mistake to make that Haymitch almost laughs, “That was Peeta Mellark, asshole.”

Visibly annoyed, Hans waves away the comment with his gun, “Enough jokes.”

“You would’ve made a pretty Victor yourself, Hans,” Haymitch means this as a compliment. He would have fit in well with Beetee and the others who’d used their brains instead of their brawn.

“What was it you said before, ‘May the odds be ever in your favor, motherfucker,’” Hans says and Haymitch can’t help but laugh. Those would be the last words he hears in his life. They were the words that had ruined his life, the words that had been spoken by the woman who helped him enjoy his life, the words that had started a revolution. It’s always fucking words.

Haymitch laughs. He laughs as Hans, that pretentious little fuck, he laughs at the Games, he laughs at death. He also laughs because he has a gun taped to his back, which he has carefully hidden from the Capitols. He shouts, “Effie, get down,” and shoots his last two bullets. One in Hans’ chest and one in the gangly one’s head. Hans stumbles towards the gaping hole that was once a window, clutching Effie’s arm. She doesn’t say anything. The look on her face is neutral as she tries to resist the pull. Hans is dangling from the window, grasping on to the fabric of Effie’s sleeve. She makes the smallest whimpers as she tries to dig her heels in. Haymitch lumbers to her as fast as he can. He wraps his arms around her to slow her descent. But he’s not strong enough now.

So he does what he has always done: he rips her clothes off. He separates the seam of the sleeve from the bodice of the dress and a weight is lifted from her. He pulls her easily into his arms. They melt together, one of his hands still on her back and the other clutching the back of her head. He kisses her right cheek, smears his lips against hers then kisses her left cheek and peppers small kisses along her jaw. Then he presses his cheek to hers and lets himself just feel her as he pants into her ear. Her pulse is racing, her skin is clammy and he has the strangest urge to lay her down and take her right there, next to a dead body. He doesn’t actually have it in him to exert himself more. But if he weren’t sure that the Peacekeepers would be here any second, he’d probably fucking try.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cameras may have caught all of that but they won’t catch what’s coming next, he thinks as he hurries her into Argyle’s limo. Before the door is shut, Effie is straddling his lap, kissing him like there’s no tomorrow because there very nearly wasn’t. He should be afraid, he should be planning but the only thing he can think is, “Victor, victor, victor.”

Haymitch hasn’t let go of her since the Peacekeepers and the firefighters found them. Even when he put on the fireman’s jacket, he kept one hand on her at all times as if she might be taken from him at any moment. But Effie hasn’t complained; she’s needed his touch. The smell of blood and fire and the bite of fear had pulled Effie back to the Capitol cells. She would have been comatose except for Haymitch’s large, rough hand which moored her to the present. Haymitch had never been in the cells. He had never touched her there. So she knew his hand kept her here and that it was now.

The activity outside of the building is overwhelming, people keep yelling at them and trying to touch them. Haymitch curls his battered body around her, not even letting the paramedics touch them. He swears that he’ll go to the hospital once he’s seen the children. She should fight him on that but she won’t. He deserves to see them. And she wants to hold them so desperately. 

That’s when she hears the voice. It’s the reporter who visited their home. She turns in Haymitch’s arms and hisses, “That’s him! That’s the one who interviewed Peeta and said he was crazy.” Her fingers are clutching at his shirt and she feels crazed by the wave of anger that sweeps over her.

“What ‘one who said Peeta was crazy,’” his voice is sharp now.

“The reporter! Hans was watching the news coverage. They showed Peeta’s paintings,” Haymitch’s breath catches in his chest but she presses on, “They said he was crazy. He’s not crazy, Haymitch.” She feels a little desperate when she says this.

He frames her face with his hands and kisses her forehead, “I know, sweetheart.” The sounds of the reporters’ feet are near now. They’ll have to make some kind of statement.

***  
“Mr Abernathy, Mr Abernathy, now that it’s all over--this incredible ordeal--what are your views--,” he’s stopped from finishing his sentence by Effie punching him.

She makes her fist wrong and it’ll hurt like a bitch in the morning but damn it, he’s proud of her. Proud to be hers. “I love you,” he says, the heat of the camera lights making beads of sweat run down his face. Effie doesn’t seem to be similarly affected by the lights, probably all those years spent modeling. She brushes her lips against the corner of his mouth and his stomach drops. She doesn’t love him. This is her goodbye. He has waited too goddamned long. He has lost her. He needs a drin--. “I love you,” she sighs into his ear.

The cameras may have caught all of that but they won’t catch what’s coming next, he thinks as he hurries her into Argyle’s limo. Before the door is shut, Effie is straddling his lap, kissing him like there’s no tomorrow because there very nearly wasn’t. He should be afraid, he should be planning but the only thing he can think is, “Victor, victor, victor.”

Epilogue  
Haymitch lays in Effie’s soft bed between the cool sheets waiting for her to see the children out. He hears her assure the children that they will be just fine on their own. When Peeta worries about her hand, she flippantly replies that she has had worse. There’s a moment of silence, then Katniss says that if she’s sure, it’s time for Peeta and her to take their medication. Effie embraces them and kisses them both. She says that she is proud of them and that she and Haymitch love them so very much. There’s a tingling that almost burns behind Haymitch’s eyes as he hears the change in their breathing. He can hear Katniss trying to hold back her tears. And when Effie finally returns to him, her cheeks are wet. She undresses and needlessly tells him what transpired at the doors. He holds out his aching arms to her and she bounds to him, naked as the day she was born. It’s incredibly unladylike but now that he thinks about it, Effie has never really been a lady.

They have just returned from the hospital. The doctors wanted Haymitch to stay overnight but he refused. They had already spent one night in the trauma bay, holding hands like fucking teenagers through a pink curtain as they were x-rayed, poked, sutured and prodded into some semblance of wellbeing. There had been a moment when the podiatry resident was sewing up his foot when a severe looking woman had come to see Effie. In a voice so soft he could barely hear her, she had asked Effie if she needed a rape kit. They would send Haymitch to get a CT scan and while he was gone, they would collect samples to test for STDs and she could receive a pill that would terminate any possible pregnancy. The paper cover on Effie’s pillow rustled but he couldn’t tell if she was nodding or shaking her head. He sat up a little and the doctor exclaimed in annoyance. “No,” Effie said so loudly that it had to be for his benefit. “Nothing like that happened. Nothing but getting my arm grabbed a little.” He laid back, ignoring the doctor’s grumbling. He hadn’t even thought about that. He hadn’t even considered that. He closed his eyes and slept a little.

Effie seems content to cuddle at first. He lays on his back and she rests her head on his aching chest. After a while, she begins to stroke his chest. Then she starts kissing his chest, migrating her caresses slowly to his throat, then his jaw, then, “Is this okay? Can I kiss you?” He laughs and pulls her up to him. “Yeah, if you're that desperate,” he says, letting his lips move against hers.

Her kisses are the softest they’ve ever exchanged. She brushes her lips against his, then pecks the corners of his mouth. Then with one hand holding her hair back so that it does not come between them, she licks his lips. When he opens his mouth in a moan, her tongue curls inside to lick the inside of his top lip. Then she presses her lips against his and he curls his hand around the nape of her neck. His stomach is in tumult--hot desire burns, and he feels that hungry ache that happens when he hears Effie laugh in another room or when she looks at him from across the room and sounds become distant and lights dim and people fade from his vision. Her small hand anchors him to the moment as the other hand strokes a burning trail just below his scar, his breath quickening as he deepens their kiss.

Effie straddles him without breaking their kiss. She isn’t heavy at all. The kids obviously haven’t been forcing her to eat the way he would. She always complained that she gained 10 pounds during the Games and that was mostly his fault; he hated the thought of her denying her hunger. But he is aching from the beating he took yesterday, and he’s not sure that he’s ready for her to be on top. He needs to recover a little first. “You don’t want me to be on top. You don’t trust me,” she says, as if having read his mind. She climbs off him and bites down so hard on her lip that he’s afraid that she’ll draw blood. He cups her cheek with his hand and he uses his thumb to free her lip. “Haymitch,” she starts, her voice thick.

“No, sweetheart. None of that bullshit tonight. I’m just sore, is all,” he replies before she can question him. “Oh! That’s okay. We can just cuddle,” she offers. They’re not just going to cuddle. His cock has already started to stir and he wants to properly kiss her breasts, something he hasn’t done since, hell, the Capitol. “We could--do you remember the first time we were in Eight together,” he asks.

She smiles brightly and lays on her side. “Like this, right,” she asks, looking over her shoulder. He curls his body around her and kisses her. “Lay back, princess. I want to get at your tits before we start,” he murmurs into her neck. They aren’t in front of a fire but as long as he has her, he can make do. She scrunches her nose in disapproval, “Language, Haymitch.” But she reclines on the bed with a sweet smile still on her lips. “You have the best damned tits in Panem, sweetheart. Never seen a better pair,” Haymitch says while dropping kisses down her chest, “and don’t say they’re too fucking small.” She laughs a little, her breasts bouncing pleasantly. He growls a little and without any further preamble he takes her breast into his mouth and gives it a good, firm suck. Effie moans his name and it stokes the hunger in his belly. His tongue laves her nipple, then he pulls it with his lips and finishes with a firm scrape of his teeth. He repeats himself on her other breast. Effie’s hands are in his hair, raking against his scalp and his cock is painfully hard against her thigh. He moves his hips against her, the friction that reaches him helps to ease its aching. He drops a hand to her clit and rubs slow circles as he kisses her, timing the movements of his tongue with those against her sensitive flesh. 

Effie reaches out with one hand and rubs his cock through his pyjama pants. He groans in her ear and thrusts into her hand. “Take these off so that I can touch you,” she says, pulling the drawstring impatiently. He pushes them off and kicks them to the floor. Her warm fingers wrap around him and the palm of her hand grinds against his tip. She nudges her other hand down past his and it takes him a moment to realize that she has two fingers inside of herself. “I’m almost ready,” she pants, her hips pushing up against their hands.

Fuck, this woman--he’s glad that she’s not expecting a response because he knows that he can’t even begin to tell her how perfect she is for him. It’s like she was made to drive him wild. She turns on her side and slides her hand over him one last time. He tucks one arm under her neck and uses it to pull her body towards him.

He takes a deep breath and then takes his cock in his other hand. Effie has raised her leg almost to her chest so that he can enter her more easily. But instead he slides the head of his cock over her opening and pushes it against her clit. She lets out a high-pitched cry, so he does it again with the same result. She grabs his thigh, her nails bite into his skin and he pushes against her clit again, his dick slick from her pleasure. They’re both panting hard and he can’t wait anymore. This time when he pulls back, he thrusts the tip of his cock where she is warm, wet and welcoming. He pulls out slightly, then pushes in further. He’s moaning now, the heat and the hunger raging in his belly. Effie drops one hand to stimulate herself furiously and hooks the other on his forearm, holding him close to her. As he moves inside her, he presses wet kisses and love bites along her shoulder and neck. Her hips rotate back and forth to meet his movements and Haymitch lets his free hand explore her body. He strokes her thigh, squeezes and slaps her ass--which elicits a sharp, “Haymitch!,” massages the quivering muscles of her stomach, palms those beautiful breasts and then he tugs her hand off his pinned arm and laces their fingers together.

And that’s how they lay together when he comes with her name on his lips. Her fingers are still moving against her clit and she comes a minute or so later as he’s softening and trying to blink the stars from his eyes. They stay like this for awhile, fingers intertwined and his soft cock resting on her thigh. “I love you,” she whispers and he kisses her neck gently. “Haymitch,” she prompts, twisting in his arms.

“Not today, sweetheart. I just told you yesterday. I’ll try tomorrow,” he says. He will try. But even with Snow dead, Coin dead and Hans dead, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to just say that he lov--how he feels about her. 

She turns until their fronts are pressed together. “I never thought I’d hear you say those words,” she says, stroking his cheek.

“Me neither so don’t get used to them,” he says gruffly before pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “Now get some sleep.”

“We have a lot to talk about in the morning. I haven’t forgotten--,” she starts to say. He kisses her mouth roughly. “Well,” she huffs.

“In the morning,” he says.

“In the morning,” she agrees, pulling his head to rest on her chest.

And this feels like victory.


End file.
